Thursday, December 30, 2004

Anand and I walked all the way to Frendicoes at an absurd eleven p.m. in search of Loper. No sign of him, but found dozens of all kinds of dogs curled up on brown sack cloth outside the shelter. They were obviously puzzled to have visitors at that ungodly hour: some sat up sleepily, one started a dizzy squeak-howl, and another came testily barking at us.

A recce of the neighbourhood yielded nothing. Our only hope now lies in the enigmatic Frendicoes interiors. Tomorrow, as early as we can make it.

I miss that fat lard of lump. Funny, how affections grow out of less than sufferance.

I'm filled with stones.
So many stones, round dark scowling smooth.
All those words flitting in my head,
- sentences - thoughtsall that I wanted to think through,have suddenly left.
I'm filled with only stones and lassitude.

My silence has a reason.
Why must I talk?
You hear the words I say and
make them who I am
You want to know
what I do -

when I had nothing to donothing was the state I chose.amidst self-promoting lunchesand people with a purposeI stayed silentfriends struggling to explainme to the world,my lack of industry
condemning me to an unsaid derisiona non-involvementa distanceskipping by

So time slips out of my hand
So evenings make me cranky for company
I will be silent.
You want the smugness of industry
A sum of achievements I parrot
am I?

I create I convince myself I create I doodle, I daydream, I feel I sing, I smile, I love This is my purpose

I am notuntil you see me
yellow post-its flagging

lawyer/researcher/feminist/poet

I ball my fists round who I was
who can I become?I grabor do they cling?
identities we play with dog-eared dog-clenched

My time was mine - notproductive for the worldstill I asked endlesslywho is Me?

three months out of a job
so the money runs out
and so does bravado

We skip words till they don't even rumble

And now I work everyday
Mon to Fri, 9.30 to 5.30
Let the words vanish up a vacuum,
a mediocrity of everydays
lost for words, lost for conversationsthe talk not me, or all me

The itch still thereI lie down and it wants a little scratchsomething crawling all over my brainsometimes I ball it in my fist
and crush it in a shape to fit a size
a fistful of rice, a fistful of flour
eat and clean and make love

After blogging daily for a week, I posted nothing yesterday. It’s back to one of those existential moments:

What is the purpose of this blog? What do I want to make of it? A record of my “poems”? Or also “ramblings” and “musings”? When does a piece of writing become one or the other – especially when most of my poetry is confessional? But poetry wants to veil and hint, not bare. If this blog, then, is to contain my poems, how can it be a notebook/journal at the same time?

What prevents, you ask, from it being everything? Nothing but an inclination for stubborn puristry.

Monday, December 06, 2004

The Elders' stories clang in your ears
the next morning. You are wood
a wooden wedge weighing
down your smile
you stumble into the mass of
liquid eyes pleading trust
pleading sanity
Their hands extended
tiny grubby hands
they hold together the shards of their laughter
clutching your arm
tugging your dupatta
knocking you about with the ferocity of
ingenuous needs
like disfigured dolls, like tin-plate soldiers
they slash your poise till you flee
in collapse
in impotence.

About Me

Monica Mody is a poet, writer, and cultural theorist from Ranchi, India, currently living in San Francisco. Kala Pani, her book of cross-genre writing, is out from 1913 Press. She received her Bachelors in Arts and Laws from the National Law School of India University, and her MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Notre Dame. Monica trained in indigenous technologies from the West African Dagara tradition with Dr. Malidoma Some, and continues to learn from poets and healers in multiple borderlands traditions.